


battles fought at sea

by jenaimarre



Category: The Libertines
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 13:13:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6007459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenaimarre/pseuds/jenaimarre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fluffy angsty present day thing for Valentine's Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	battles fought at sea

Carl was swimming up through the dregs of the night's - or morning's - sleep. He was ticking off the standard 'Who am I?' 'Where am I?' and 'What happened last night?' criteria at increasing speed. He broke the surface with a splash - process complete - now present to take in his current predicament: speeding down the motorway en route to Birmingham, with The Libertines. Wait, with A Libertine... As Carl glanced downwards, he realised his own splayed form (in last night's clothes) was mirrored by an adjacent Peter's, who seemed close to falling off the tour-bus sofa. That realisation made Carl giggle. He sleepily took in the lines of shade that shafts of sunlight cut across the bus; bright light fell on Peter's face.  
Carl felt as though he were still bobbing on the sea - awake, but not resisting the clutches of drowsiness. Currents of emotion could flow through him, but he wouldn't have the words or logic to do anything but float along. Which is why, when Peter's closed eyes evoked a surge of affection, quickly followed by frustration (at the emotional boundaries still between them; at his own confliction; at Peter's floppy hair; at Peter constricting his space so he'd slept on one of his hands, which now throbbed with pins and needles), Carl didn't fight his urge to throw an arm across the other's chest and pull him flush against Carl. He was warmer, now. Carl closed his eyes again, fiercely gripping his prize. It was good... It was good to have his friend here. And it was good to be touring with his friend, and travelling with his friend. And it was funny that Peter would wake up to a human seat-belt. Carl was dimly aware that other parts of his body were more awake than his brain was, and maybe he was digging into Peter's back, just a little, but... oh well, he reasoned, soaking in the warmth and the comforting smell of 'vehicle' - the one that eternally accompanied the anticipation of travelling somewhere new.  
Through the slits of his eyelids - he felt he was too tired to close them properly - all Carl could see was soft brown hair. Smiling, he nuzzled the mess, pressing his nose to the back of Peter's head, his lips to the back of Peter's neck. He didn't really want to sleep; he felt uncharacteristically content, for a morning. Not really hungover - kind of still delirious from last night's exploits; he couldn't have been sleeping long, perhaps. But Peter wasn't waking up to enjoy it with him. Obviously he couldn't keep lying like this when Peter did wake up - when you're awake, hugs are more complicated. And you have other priorities - you don't want to cuddle people all the time. Which, right now, seemed like a ridiculous notion. But regardless of states of consciousness, Carl was a hugger, anyway.  
And we should all be more open to hugging, Carl thought. Come on, Peter, it must be, a, whatever, time of day. 'Mmmfligib,' he mumbled into his friend's ear. 'The curtain makes m'feel dizzy,' he confided, looking up at its vertical, harsh lines, at odds with the angles of the sunrays. Looking up was effort, though. Everything was effort. But he was gaining clarity by the moment, and it occurred to him that whatever embarrassing affection Carl showed his friend now wouldn't have the consequences of teasing. He smiled, returning his attention to Peter's ear and simply and confessing - 'Mmmlove ya. I love you,' trying to convey his sincerity despite the slurring.  
Then Carl wanted to stay there, and rest his head atop Peter's. It was a bit uncomfortable, though, so with a happy sigh, Carl let his head flop back to the sofa, buried in Peter's hair once more, succumbing to sleep just a little longer.  
*****  
When Carl properly woke up, it was 3PM, and he was still on the sofa, but no one was there with him. He was ready for action - he knew that because he was in a fucking bad mood. He needed food - and fruit and water and fresh air, but he ignored those preposterous instincts, because he was a shining example to all the health nuts of just how long you could go without - and relief from the crushing notion that earlier in the morning he'd forgotten all the existential angst that usually accompanies any semblance of intimacy with Peter. Yeah, one of the cornerstones of his daily doubts and anxieties was suppressing the wish for what he had with Peter to go all the way, like in the old days. But he had to suppress it, because maybe a certain level of distance was what had helped The Libertines function so smoothly post-reunion so far, and because Peter probably wasn't interested, and above all, he just didn't want to fuck it all up, terrified of losing what he had. But if you forget all that in a surreal, blissful early morning, then it hits you like a ten tonne sock later.  
But... Fuck it. After years of effort, and therapy, and Improvement, Carl was armed to the teeth with self-analysis and Techniques. He knew he needed to feel alright, and put it out of his mind, and enjoy the Birmingham gig, and be a good mate. And if he needed a few quiet moments nursing a cup of tea and too many cigarettes whilst staring at the road and cuddling his knees, so be it. One thing was certain: he'd manage it all without fruit or water or fresh air. You just watch him.  
*****  
The road was zipping by once again, but for the final time in England. Carl felt his insides tingle; they were London-bound, and the anticipation was an odd combination of comforting familiarity and fucking terror at the idea of playing the unfamiliar and intimidating O2. It would be good, though; the tour had been good, and an incredible feat for The Libertines. As always, everything seemed like a dream. Peter seemed like he was in a dream; he'd been near consistently happy for the past few days, and Carl wasn't sure how that made him feel, because the ability to define emotions loved to abandon him. Right now, though, having the human embodiment of sunshine inhabiting the bus didn't seem so bad.  
Peter joined him by the window, leaning out and humming. Carl watched his soft arms fold atop each other, Peter resting his head in the centre and squinting at the sky.  
'Pigman,' Carl said, offering Peter his whiskey and having nothing, really, to say. Peter accepted the drink, then carried on humming. It sounded like a Smiths song - 'I Won't Share You', he could identify, having properly acquainted himself with their music over the years. Ha. Uhuh. 'S'that why you're so happy? S'there a, y'know, someone?'  
Peter looked over wordlessly, with a smile that seemed half elated and half bemused by Carl's awkwardness. He continued humming.  
Carl pushed aside the way he felt like his insides were twisting up, going instead with curiosity. He stood up, leaning out of the window too. 'C'mon, Peter!'  
Peter played up the coyness in response, fully willing to make the entire encounter seem like a stereotypical teenage-girl-sleepover-film-scene.  
'Mmmm, there might be.' Carl kind of wanted to bolt. 'A he or a she?'  
'He, Carl, and thanks for acknowledging my sexuality, I know it's a strain,' he mocked, whilst Carl resolved to sing the Anthem For Doomed Youth chorus even louder until Peter would stop teasing him. He was beginning to regret the curiosity route; he decided he really didn't want to know. Carl turned his head towards the buffeting motorway wind; he could see the city glittering in the distance. 'I'm glad you're happy,' he offered, and Peter looked mock-surprised before responding.  
'And are you happy?'  
'As ever,' Carl sang with an exaggerated beam as Peter laughed.  
'No, but really, with the band, and with everything aside from your noggin, how are you, Carlos?'  
It was a warm question.  
'Y'know me. But it couldn't be better,' he smiled.  
'That's something,' Peter said, placing his arm over Carl's shoulders.  
*****  
Carl was swimming again - swimming through the blanketing lights and sensory tornado of a gig. A gig at the O2. They were on Waterloo and Carl was putting his heart into the piano, comfortable behind the hulking instrument and bathing in the crowd's singing. But Peter's sudden presence made him look up, and oh God - he was singing the 'lover' line right at him, leaning over the piano top. Fuck. The whole reason Carl was sticking to the piano now was 'cause he couldn't handle that moment every night. Carl dropped his head, focusing on his fingers and trying not to let his vision go blurry with what may or may not have been tears of indignance. It wasn't fair. If Peter was on cloud nine with whatever bloke he was seeing, why was this necessary?  
He struggled through the rest of the song, then rushed towards Peter, determined to question him before The Man Who Would Be King - to get some answers.  
'I'm assuming your boy isn't here tonight, then?' he whispered, pulling Peter down at the neck rather than having to stand on his tiptoes.  
'What?'  
'You said you'd stop singing those lyrics at me.'  
Peter laughed, brushing Carl's hand away, who flushed with anger. He held Peter in his glare.  
'Oh, yeah, Carl, he is here tonight, actually,'  
'Playing hard to get, then?' Carl spat.  
'Not at all,' Peter grinned, 'in fact, I'm pretty much on my knees...' And he did - he began to sink to the floor with a shit-eating grin, and Carl couldn't do it anymore. In a fell swoop, he dropped his guitar and sprinted offstage, the noise of the crowd receding, the implications of abandoning a gig not registering. As Carl desperately tried not to try and fight a wall with his head, he was aware of Peter talking to the crowd.  
'I'll be right back,' and Carl could hear the laughter in Peter's voice, and Carl did not fucking want to know.  
Peter appeared nonetheless, breathless, head poking round the door of the stairwell-top where Carl had found himself.  
'Biggles, don't be upset,' he cooed as he drew nearer.  
'Don't fucking touch me.'  
Peter acquiesced, stopping a few inches away. And his words were thick with remorse.  
'Fuck, Carl, I went too far. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it was wrong in the first place but I didn't want to go too far - and I suppose I did,'  
Carl still didn't fucking want to know.  
'I'll - I'll explain myself. Uh, do you remember... A couple of mornings ago, on the bus, the morning after we must've collapsed on the sofa or something?'  
Carl felt his stomach drop, and his brain also drop, impaling itself on his spine. Fuck.  
'Fucking hell. You wouldn't...'  
'Carl, let me finish,'  
'So this is a joke? You were - you were awake - and... You'd exploit a candid moment and - make up a fucking boyfriend or whatever the fuck because you thought it would be a great opportunity to - fucking - tear me down?'  
Voice rising an octave as he finished, Carl watched a conflicted sort of smile emerge on Peter's face. He was fucking speechless.  
So a silence ensued. Carl could hear his own thoughts, which were a serious of exclamation marks, and the sound of the clinical white wall he was fixing with a death-stare. Peter ended the quiet.  
'I won't share you...' he sang softly, a hint of nerves tainting the sound, 'I won't share you with the drive and ambition, the zeal...'  
As Peter sang he closed the gap between him and Carl, whilst the latter wondered if this was what getting your head smashed in with a hammer felt like. But Peter lightly touched Carl's chin, angling his head so the former could meet his eyes.  
'I feel this is my time,' he near-whispered, breath fluttering on Carl's mouth, smiling as brightly as he'd been smiling for days. And Carl was punched by the realisation that he may have misread the situation.  
Feeling his facial expression betray his slight epiphany, Carl refused to break eye contact, and Peter spoke.  
'Do I make myself clear?'  
You do, Carl thought. But he was feeling fragile. Might as well be sure.  
'No,' he whispered, smiling, tentatively encircling Peter in his arms.  
'If the curtains make you dizzy we need to see an optician, Carlos. And I love you too,' - and it could have been the innocent phrase of endearment passed not so infrequently between them, but Carl could hear the weight behind the words. Peter's face was filling his vision, big, big, big eyes and soft mouth. Carl pressed their lips together and it was almost tangible: he felt Peter's joy flowing into him; drowning him.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. There's a bit of a split camp over whether I Won't Share You is a romantic song or a rejection song. But I'll fight anyone on the latter side with #sound #arguments as to why it's romantic.  
> 2\. I don't know if Peter came off as overly mean in this - but he's eternally Carl trash as everyone knows, and was overjoyed by the bus encounter and spent a few days processing it and trying to be sure of the situation and having fun with it but he is genuinely apologetic when he realises it's hurt Carlito, so. I wanted it to be Carl's POV though, and they had to get back and finish the gig, so I couldn't explain that.
> 
> Thanks for reading. x


End file.
